Our Day
by el toreo
Summary: I wake up, clean the house, least I'm not drinking /Eri Minami/ vignettes about domestic affairs.
1. I Love You So

**I love You So**

* * *

Laying down on my divan, I turn on the tv.

A goddess appears before me, infomercial about how a white silk gown can predict who you will fall in love with, and with great success.

A Caucasian woman against a sepia background is then shown. She is slim, graceful, and has noticeable trouble with the Japanese language as she smiles through her pearly whites and recounts a misadventure that led to her rich husband. All after buying and wearing said dress.

Successful.

The scene then cuts to a dark-skinned, slothful looking man in a suit, smiling his own set of pearly whites while a horribly catchy theme song plays in the background.

The man tells me that I can own the dress for an easy sum of yen, and call right now and you can have another dress in blue for free. He then hooks his audience by telling them that they'll be lonely for the rest of their lives without shelling out precious yen for this dress.

I'm already on the phone ordering four dresses.

"Four dresses ma'am?" The woman on the other end of the line sounds used to the demands already. Her voice sounds like if she is used to desperate woman not wanting to be the Christmas cake. Women trying anything to find love before they spoil away.

Grabbing a pillow from the other end of the divan, I lay my head on its soft fabric and get into a comfortable laying position.

"Four," I confirm.

"Getting a little desperate, aren't we?" My eyes widen at her sardonic remark.

"Yes," I'm ignoring her remark. A sigh at the other end of the line. My fingers are twisting the phone chord nervously.

"You know, buying a dress isn't gonna buy you love," She's right. I'm only spending money because I can at the moment. But she doesn't know that. Doesn't know I have a son in day care, a husband out in California, or the fact that I'm stuck alone in a big house lounging and watching tv instead of cleaning and caring for Yuuta.

She probably thinks I'm some lonely fat old spinster living with a bunch of cats.

I sigh before whispering "I'm married already."

I hang up before she can respond. Putting the phone away, I turn my attention back to the tv. The infomercial is on repeat, the goddess reappears and is soon followed by the man in the suit.

I change the channel before he smiles those pearly white gates of his.

* * *

disclaimer  
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concrit grealty appreciated


	2. We'll Have Everything

**We'll Have Everything**

* * *

On my knees, at the kitchen floor, wearing something sexy, lacey, backless and pink. Something that can be easily taken off. Waiting for my husband to punish me.

* * *

No.

* * *

On my knees, at the kitchen floor, wearing some faded clothes. Something that can be easily taken off. Waiting for my husband to come home by scrubbing the day's grime out from the spaces between the tiles.

Scrub, scrub, scrub, scrubbing with some brush I got from the general store.

Dip, dip, dip, dipping in a blue bucket I got from the general store.

Breathe, breathe, breathe, breathing in the lemon scented, all-purpose degreaser I got from the general store.

Sigh. I take a break.

Dropping the brush in the blue bucket, it makes a plopping sound in the lemon scented degreaser.

On my knees in the middle of the kitchen floor, stuck on a dry island of grime while the wild waters of drying lemon-scented degreaser surround me.

I wipe the sweat accumulating from my brow, and look up at the ceiling.

When are you coming home?

I imagine you in my head busting through the door, a pirate, a sailor, muscles bulging as you swimming through the lemon-scented degreaser to rescue me from this dry island of grime. You hold me up in your arms and ravish me.

I smile. Me and my silly fantasies. Where do I get off with this nautical theme?

Sigh. I take another break.

Close my eyes.

I imagine you in my head opening the door to the house, take off your sweat filled shoes before slipping on some comfortable house slippers, turning on the lights and walking in the living room before noticing a bizarre present on the carpeted floor.

It's human shaped, female anatomy, wrapped completely in Christmas wrapping papers. The wrists of her arms and the ankles of her legs are tied behind her in red and vibrant strings. She's on her side, helpless.

Smile on your face as your house slippers flip-flop over. Lick your lips as you open your present and devour my Christmas cake.

I smile. Me and my silly fantasies. Where do I get off with this Christmas theme?

Sigh.

Look at the microwave built over the stove that exhibits the time in red LED lights. In an hour Yuuta comes out from day care.

Sigh.

Dip my hand in the blue bucket and start scrubbing away my grime island. I drown myself in a sea of lemon-scented degreaser.

* * *

Disclaimer  
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concrit greatly appreciated


	3. Our Dreams Have Magic Because

**Our Dreams Have Magic Because**

* * *

"You're not coming home?"

"I'm sorry dear, truly, I am."

Shut it.

"But these damn Americans don't know anything about proper business etiquette."

Yeah. I bet they don't.

"You're not coming home." In my head I can imagine my husband residing in a posh hotel, probably soaking the California sunshine by the pool. Glass martini in one hand, phone on the other, the ass of his swim trunks sitting on dry cement while his feet are submerged in the waters of the first steps of the pool.

"Believe me my darling, I want to be on the first plane over there, but my partner says this is a deal of a lifetime, and I can't let such trivial things as cultural backgrounds get in the way of big bucks."

It's probably some clichéd big named hotel in some clichéd big named location. The hotels probably French themed and is probably situated in Beverly Hills. Probably.

"Don't worry dear, as soon as this mess clears out, I'll be home with you and Yuuta."

He's surround by other woman. California blonds and Latin beauties, all wearing skimpy dresses that accentuate their plastic surgery ridden ass-

"Honey, are you still there?"

I hate you right now.

"I'm not wearing anything." I don't know why I say that, but it's a lie. I'm wearing a tank top and some sweats. He's silent over the other end. Until

"Ex. Excuse me?"

"I want your touch."

"I'll give it to you. Rip off the clothes I know you're wearing and just eat you."

I gasp, he notices. I can tell he's smiling over the other end of the line.

"You know what I'm gonna do? I'm gonna tie you up and put you at my feet. Right were you belong. A bitch right at his master's slippers."

Gulp.

"Slip off my slippers then spank you with them because you are a dirty girl. Take off my long black sheer socks and stuff it in your mouth. I've been on my feet all day, you'll taste that in the sweat. After you are bound and gagged, I'm gonna zip down my pants and."

* * *

"Honey, are you still there?"

* * *

Gulp.

Me and my silly imagination. My husband would never do that. I know. I want to escape from this conversation.

"I have to let you go. Yuuta's almost out of day care." It's a lie, He's not out until another two more hours.

"Oh. Okay," Almost sounds disappointed. Almost.

"Again, Honey, I'm sorry I can't be home sooner."

Yeah, I bet. Enjoy your haughty beauties and the California sun.

"Don't worry about it. I know how much you want to be home with me and Yuuta."

A silent chuckle over the other end.

"I love you honey."

Lies. If you did, you'd drop everything and be home.

"I love you too."

He hangs up. And I follow suit. Lounged on my divan, I think of my next move. The house is cleaned spotless, and infomercials are starting to bore me to tears.

My thoughts drift over to Yuuta and daycare. The boy doesn't like me.

The boy doesn't like me.

Sigh. I close my eyes.

Picking myself off from the divan, I walk over to the closet and change myself into something presentable.

Maybe I can help at the daycare?

* * *

When I arrive, the park smells like summer. The laughter of children is surrounding me. I walk towards the gazebo in the middle of the park that hosts the daycare.

A young man is standing under the gazebo, instructing the children on the proper protocols of the park all while giving me his back.

I walk up to him.

"Excuse me," I say when I'm close to him, "are you a caretaker here?"

He turns around and gives me a smile. My heart skips a beat.

My, he's handsome.

* * *

disclaimer  
and  
concrit greatly appreciated


	4. We'll Always Stay

**We'll Always Stay**

* * *

I'm wearing pearls. White.

"Honey, how about I hire you a maid?"

White, just like the dress I'm wearing.

"I didn't marry you just to clean around the house. I want you to relax."

Fashionable, the dress. Straight out from a fifties catalogue that sort of resembles something that Marilyn Monroe would wear.

"A live in maid, one that can take away the burden of cleaning a big house from you."

I'm wearing pearls. White.

And I'm vacuuming. In a fashionable pair of white pumps. White.

Doing the housework for my husband the fashionable way; just like what June Cleaver would sacrifice for the well being of her suburbanite family.

Wearing pearls. Vacuuming. In a fashionable pair of white pumps. White.

But my hair. It's not fashionable. It's not bob-cut platinum blonde like those other American Starlets. It's its same mousy brown color, in the same style that I usually have it. A faux ponytail that doesn't match what I'm wearing. White.

I'm vacuuming. In Pearls. And a fashionable pair of pumps. White.

With the same ugly hair.

"…hire a…"

I don't want to do this anymore.

I don't want to clean for you anymore. I don't want to serve you anymore. I don't know what I want anymore.

* * *

Take a deep breath. Open my eyes.

Am I happy?

* * *

I'm not some fashionable housewife straight out from some Fifties American sitcom.

"…live in…"

I'm wearing faded clothes because I don't want to leave the house. Faded clothes because I resent trying to do housework in clothes that highlight what might be the fashionable way of doing menial chores.

I'm not some fashionable house wife straight out from some Fifties American sitcom.

"…maid…"

Am I? Or something worse?

"Honey, are you still-"

I don't want to hear this. This. Whatever this is. Disgusted, I remove the receiving end of the phone away from my ear. He's still talking.

I'm lounged upon my divan as I put the receiving end of the phone back upon its black pedestal. Laying on my back, I wait for five minutes while I stare at the ceiling and twiddle my thumbs in anticipation. He doesn't call back.

Sigh.

Grab the remote from a nearby coffee table and turn on the tee vee. As I drop the remote to the floor and turn my attention back to the ceiling, an obnoxiously catchy tune plays.

"This dress has special properties."

White.

Sigh.

* * *

**disclaimer**  
**and**  
**concrit greatly appreciated**


	5. In Love

**In Love**

* * *

I do something stupid after I drop off Yuuta at daycare. I go into Junes and buy a cheap lighter and a pack of cigarettes.

My mother always told me they were bad for you, you'll get ugly if you smoke. You'll develop wrinkles everywhere. No one wants a woman with crow's feet. I believed her. I still do.

Cough as I take my first sip.

I'm a femme fatale.

I will be ugly soon, but I welcome the fact.

* * *

**disclaimer**  
**and**  
**concrit greatly appreciated**


	6. This Way

**This Way**

* * *

I'm smoking a pack a day now.

At first I felt sick. Disgusted. But then I got used to it.

Even so, I can still feel the cancer cementing in my arteries just like fat, and yes I know that this is biologically impossible. It usually goes for the lungs, but in my mind that's how the cigarettes will kill me; just like grease clogging up my arteries, suffocating my lungs, chocking my heart.

Maybe I'll die like this. Maybe then my husband will notice me.

* * *

My husband.

He hasn't called back.

It's been two weeks already since the phone call.

My husband.

* * *

I didn't used to smoke in front of Yuuta. I used to just drop him off at daycare then light up a cigarette in the car, another one when I'm in the drive way of the house, one when I'm washing the dishes, on my divan watching TEEEEEVEEEEE, during a bubble bath, when I'm reading the horoscope in the paper, when I'm driving back to daycare to pick up Yuuta.

His nose wrinkles in disgust when he gets into the car. He tells me that smell is disgusting and ugly.

I'm kinda ashamed.

Now I'm lighting one up while he's in the backyard playing with his imaginary friends and I'm lounged on the divan watching some American Evangelist preaching about Jesus.

* * *

The Divan.

It's black leather is starting to grey up with cold cigarette ashes.

There are holes on the shoulder rest of the Divan showing black fiber that used to be white. I snub my cigarettes there, and in some cases, leave them there as some sort of makeshift tombstone instead of just brushing them aside where they can stain the white carpet black.

I've counted them all on both shoulder rests. Twelve. Two of them are knocked over. I smile at my macabre sense of fashion.

The Divan.

* * *

The preacher on TEA VEE says something in English. Underneath him, in subtitles that I can understand, reads that "Commit to Jesus and your children will listen to you."

I laugh. Cough. Throw the remote at his face.

* * *

Disclaimer  
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concrit greatly appreciated


	7. No One Can Tell

**No One Can Tell**

* * *

It bothers me that I can't remember my husband's name anymore.

It bothers me that I can't remember my Husband's face anymore.

It bothers me that He's not here.

It bothers me that I have no picture of him.

It bothers me that I have no picture of us.

It bothers me that Yuuta is here.

It bothers me that I'm smoking.

It bothers me that I'm living in a big house.

It bothers me that the Divan's cemetery is growing.

It bothers me that the house smells like an ashtray.

It bothers me that I smell like an ashtray.

It bothers me that I thought about hiring a maid.

It bothers me that I'm obsessed with the boy at the daycare.

It bothers me that I've masturbated to the boy at the daycare.

It bothers me that in my dreams we are lovers, in reality, strangers.

It bothers me that I don't have fantasies about my husband anymore.

It bothers me that I'm not some 50's housewife.

It bothers me that the house is a mess.

It bothers me that I can't pick myself up to clean it.

It bothers me that I feel as if I need a man to define my life.

It bothers me that I'm dependent on him.

It bothers me that I actually bought a dress from that infomercial.

It bothers me that I can't bring myself to leave the house when I'm alone.

It bothers me that I'm starting to rely more and more on Yuuta.

It bothers me that I can't tell if this mundane existence is eating at my sanity.

* * *

Breathe in my cancer stick.

I'm a femme fatale.

I am already getting ugly, and I am welcoming the fact.

* * *

Disclaimer  
and  
concrit greatly appreciated


End file.
